“Let's be quite clear about this, inspector. I take it that you went into that ladies' dressing-room, hunted around for Mrs. Fleetwood's coat-peg, and found the blazer hanging on it and the shoes lying on the floor below.”
“Exactly, sir. Mrs. Fleetwood's card was there, marking the peg. I'd no difficulty.”
Wendover made no attempt to repress the smile which curved his lips.
“Just so, inspector. Anyone else could have found the things just as easily. They were lying there, open to anyone; not even a key to turn in order to pick them up. And after dark that dressing-room is left very much to itself. No one goes there except by accident.”
In his turn he paused before launching his attack. Then he added:
“In fact, some other woman might have gone there instead of Mrs. Fleetwood; worn her shoes and her blazer; and misled you completely. Anyone could take the blazer from its peg and the shoes from the floor, inspector. Your evidence is all right up to a point, I admit; but it doesn't incriminate the owner of the articles, since they were accessible to anybody at that time of night.”
Wendover had expected to see a downfall of the Inspector's pride; but instead, Armadale's face showed clearly that the shot had missed its mark. With a slight gesture, the inspector drew Wendover's eyes to the pistol.
“There are some fingerprints on this—quite clear ones, sir. I've dusted them, and they're perfectly good as a means of identification.”
“But you don't suppose Mrs. Fleetwood will let you take her fingerprints if they're going to tell against her, do you?”
Armadale's face showed the pleasure which he felt in having forestalled criticism. He gingerly replaced the pistol in some receptacle in his bag, and then drew out, with all precaution, a table-knife which Wendover recognised as the pattern used in the hotel.